


What Colors Would I Be?

by AidaRonan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bearded Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom Steve Rogers, Drooling, Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, M/M, Orders, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, bucky loves the beard, bucky rocking some sexy outfits because he's apparently unaware of what he looks like, gagging, homeowner steve, ice cube seduction, landscaper bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: On a too-hot summer day, Steve finally puts the moves on his gorgeous landscaper.The landscaper doesn't mind.





	What Colors Would I Be?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CantSinkMyShip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSinkMyShip/gifts).



> Commission for some kink between Bucky and an older Steve. 
> 
> For my non-American readers, 102 degrees is about 39 C.

Bucky kneels in the middle of the living room, arms bound in leather behind his back. His knees ache dully; his cock aches more.

Steve towers above him, and Bucky feels like he’s been reduced to two things and two things only.

_Need. Want._

It pulses through him, makes his eyes heavy with lust, his chest rising and falling in quiet pants. Jesus, if Steve doesn’t touch him in the next five seconds, he might actually pass out.

“Open your mouth, Bucky.”

How the hell did he get here?

* * *

Bucky’s entire outfit sticks to him. His ribbed white tank top is practically see-through with sweat, and he’s severely regretting the black cargo pants. They wick moisture at least, but they’re also hot to the touch, the sun sticking to the dark fabric. His prosthetic is picking up the heat too, and it aches a bit where the metal meets his shoulder.

Before he shoved it into a shady spot on Steve’s porch, his phone told him it was a comfortable one hundred and two degrees outside.

Picking up another stone block, and laying it into place on the edge of the flower bed, Bucky wipes sweat off his face with the back of his glove. And he doesn’t know why—maybe it’s the feeling of being watched—but he throws a glance back up toward the house. A pretty white number with square columns and a wraparound porch.

He finds Steve watching him, his arms crossed over his perfectly muscular chest and too-tight blue tee. Jesus and Mary, that man. Thirty-five, muscles on muscles, a beautiful honey-colored beard Bucky wants to feel brushing against his inner thighs and the delicate puckered skin of his-

“James, can you come up here for a moment?”

Bucky sets the brick in his hands into place and trots up to the porch, the mere promise of shade filling him with relief long before he actually reaches it.

“Yes, Mr. Rogers?” he asks, pulling off his one glove and feeling every bit of their twelve year age difference. He watches Steve’s Adam’s apple bob up and down and can’t help but lick his lips. He wants to cover it with his mouth. He wants to fall to his knees.

“Come in for some water,” Steve says. “Take a break. It’s too hot for this today.”

“Sam’ll have my head.” His real boss, though even as he says it, all he wants to do is bend to Steve’s will.

“He’s not exactly here, is he?” Steve asks, clapping a palm on his bare arm. Skin on skin and Bucky finds himself nodding. No he’s not. He’s definitely not.

He’s never been in Steve’s house before. It’s modest with simple furniture. The only color seems to bleed from the art on his walls. Black frames. White walls. Bucky pauses mid-step to look at one a moment longer. It’s a stylistic painting of a man, back arched, his skin comprised of oranges and blues and fiery reds. Rope formed of muted yellows and tans crisscrosses his entire frame.

He feels his face burn when he tries to think about why Steve has a painting like that up on his wall.

“Like it?” Steve asks, stopping so Bucky can look. “It's one of mine.”

“You...?” Bucky swallows, imagines letting Steve tie him up in ropes and paint the lines of his body in vivid color. “It’s beautiful.” It is. Beautiful, and he swears it’s hotter inside than it was on the lawn.

“Well, the model didn’t exactly hurt. He was so, so good for me.”

Bucky makes a pained little choking sound at that, but Steve doesn’t seem to hear it. He jerks his head for Bucky to follow.

The kitchen is a dream. Black granite countertops. Two ovens. Enough counter space that Bucky could make food to cater a small party without having to shuffle things around every five minutes.

“Wow, this is a great kitchen.”

“It is. The previous owner had a cake business,” Steve says. “I guess it’s sort of wasted on me though. I burn microwave popcorn.”

He pulls open a cabinet and takes down two clear glasses, filling them both with ice and water from the fridge door. Bucky immediately downs half the glass and digs out an ice cube, rubbing it on his neck and the bare parts of his chest, letting his head fall back in the process. 

When he finally opens his eyes again, Steve’s watching him. A drip of melted water slides over the sharp jut of Bucky’s clavicle and rolls down his skin. He feels it go and watches Steve’s eyes follow it down.

And God if that doesn’t make his skin burn. Long-gone is the vision of cooking for his friends and family in this kitchen. Instead it’s only Steve pinning his wrists onto the granite, fucking him so hard the cabinet doors rattle in their casings.

Steve casually reaches out toward the ice maker and knocks it once with his hand, another cube falling into his palm. A single step, and he crowds into Bucky’s space, the ice cube gripped between his fingers. Cocking his head, he lowers it right into the center of Bucky’s chest and trails it down to the u-shaped collar of his tank, following the curve of it with one long stroke. 

“James,” he says, his voice low and thick.

“Bucky,” he chokes out, because if they’re gonna do this, whatever this is, Steve should call him by his real name. “I go by Bucky, sir, Mr. Rogers, Steve.”

“Bucky.”

“Mhm?”

“You wanna take off your shirt for me?” Steve asks, the ice cube running over the scarred seam between his skin and the prosthetic. Like Steve can feel the slight burn there and wants to sooth it. Bucky’s eyes flutter. 

“I want to do everything for you,” he gasps out, blushing the second the words leave his mouth because fuck, he did not just say that out loud.

Steve laughs softly, and steps back, popping the ice cube into his mouth in a way that makes Bucky think of nothing but hot, hot sin.

“Finish your water, Bucky.” He smiles. “You’re gonna need it.”

Bucky tips the rest of the glass down his throat like a cocktail and lets Steve lead him into the living room, following at his heels without prompting.

One kick from Steve’s foot sends the ottoman flying against the wall, emptying out the middle of the floor. Under different circumstances, Bucky might ask him to dance. 

“If at any point, this is too much,” Steve says, “all you have to say is ‘winter.’ Repeat that back to me.”

“Winter,” Bucky says.

“I’m gonna need you to give me more than that. I need to make sure you know you can stop this at any time.”

“If I want it to stop, I say ‘winter.’” It seems ludicrous. Like Bucky will ever want to stop anything if Steve's the one doing it. 

“Perfect,” Steve says, smiling. “So good, Bucky, thank you.”

A little chill runs up Bucky’s spine and he shifts from one foot to the other.

“Take off your clothes and kneel,” Steve says.

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

Bucky nervously grabs at the hem of his shirt and tugs it up, the metal arm whirring quietly at the motion. He tosses the tank away, no care at all to where it lands. The cargo pants come next and he bites his lip, trying to keep the nervousness back. His arm is amazing and he’s great with it after a few years of practice and a lot of PT, but dexterity still isn’t always his strong suit, especially when he’s trembling so much. He fumbles with the button once, twice—apologizes.

“Don’t be sorry, Bucky,” Steve says. “Besides, I’m extremely patient when it comes to things I want.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and finally manages to thread it through, kicking off his work boots and pushing his pants down. Steve hums approvingly.

“No underwear? Really?”

“Too hot,” Bucky says. 

“I’ll say,” Steve mutters, but he’s got his gaze fixed on Bucky. Intense and authoritative. He points at the carpet and Bucky slides down onto his knees, glancing down. God, he’s hard. Hard and there’s already a drop of pre-cum beading up and threatening to drip right off.

“God, you’re so good,” Steve says. He steps over to the ottoman and pulls the top open, dragging out a pair of leather cuffs. Bucky stays still while he straps them around his wrists, only whimpers a little when Steve squeezes up the length of his right arm.

Lips brush his neck, trailing up to the place behind his ear, the hairs of his beard tickling his skin and making Bucky want to beg and beg and beg.

“I’m going to tear you apart, Bucky,” Steve says softly, and Bucky’s whole body vibrates with the words.

He stands back up after that, walking far enough away to stand over him and admire. Bucky’s not sure he’s ever had anyone just look at him this way. He’s not sure he’ll survive it, Steve’s eyes drinking him in piece by piece, and all he can think about is the painting on the wall and what colors Steve would use for him.

His cock twitches under Steve’s eyes and he smiles, fixing those blue eyes on Bucky’s matching pair.

“Open your mouth, Bucky,” he says, striding forward, his hands already on the button of his jeans. Dark wash and tight on his thighs and Bucky wants to grind down on one of them until he cums.

Instead, he wets his lips with his tongue and lets them part. Steve pulls his cock out of his pants, and Bucky’s eyes go wide, the knowledge of just how full he’s going to be if Steve wants him like that… it’s too much.

“Jesus, Steve,” he gasps. “Mr. Rogers. I… what should?”

“Shh shh.” It’s the only response he gets before Steve shoves three fingers into his mouth, forcing them down his throat until Bucky gags, water welling up in his eyes. The second he can make sounds again, he moans, hips bucking forward a little, and Steve beams at him, trailing drool out onto his chin.

“Do you have any idea how attractive you are, Bucky?” Steve asks.

“I’ve wanted you since you opened the door,” Bucky says. “That first day Sam sent me over.”

“Sometimes in life, we really do get what we want.” Steve strokes his cheeks, one hand still damp from his mouth, and then he holds Bucky’s face still and slowly slides his cock between his lips.

His cock is huge and heavy on his tongue. It’s a fight to keep his teeth out of the way, both sets digging into his lips with the effort. The taste is heady and musky and he can smell Steve and taste Steve and feel Steve’s fingers tangling in his hair.

He manages one quiet groan before Steve floods his throat and cuts off any sound.

Bucky shakes, concentrating and concentrating on staying relaxed, but one little jerk of Steve’s hips and he gags, vision blurring from the water in his eyes.

Steve pulls out, lets him gasp for breath for a few precious seconds and then dives back in. Again and again, muttering praises every time.

“So good, Bucky. God look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

When he finally stops, there’s drool dripping from Bucky's chin, caught in his stubble, and he’s never felt so raw and so violated and so goddamned turned on. A strand of pre-cum stretches from his erection down to the carpet and Steve actually squats down to find it, gathering it up with is thumb and tasting it before ravaging Bucky’s mouth.

“Stand up,” Steve says, but he’s got him by the cuffs already, tugging him roughly to his feet. Bucky stumbles, but Steve steadies him, pulling him over to the couch. He arranges him after that, pushing here and pulling there and giving him one very firm, “No. Turn around.”

Until Bucky’s splayed out face-down, half hanging over the arm, one leg bent up onto the cushions and the other on the floor to keep him from rolling off. He’s still bound, and he looks back over his silver shoulder and finds Steve smiling at him. So handsome it hurts.

He almost doesn’t notice the bottle of lube in his hand. But there’s slick on his fingers and Bucky doesn’t know where it came from, when he got it or where he stashed it, but there it is. And Steve’s pressing and Bucky’s whole world becomes one little point of pressure, all of it swirling together into a haze of one finger, two fingers, three, and he’s fucking into the cushions and begging and pleading.

“Please, Stevie, fucking please...”

“You want me, Buck? Want me to fuck you so hard you never stop feeling it?”

“Every goddamn inch, you hot asshole.”

A loud smack and Bucky doesn’t feel the sting of it on his ass at first, not until Steve’s already put a matching red print on the other side. He ruts into the couch automatically, and Steve grabs him by the hair.

“Stop that.”

Bucky has some witty reply at the ready, he swears it, but then Steve butts up against his hole and he forgets every single fucking thought he’s ever had in his entire existence.

It burns. It burns and Bucky’s squirming and Steve still has his hand in his hair and he never wants it to stop. But his body gives way, lets Steve inside, and that’s even better. So deep and so full, and Steve leans down and nuzzles against his spine and Bucky almost cums from the feeling of his beard and the slight pressure of his weight pushing him down, down, down against the couch.

“Not gonna last long,” Bucky admits, cheeks warming. “Sorry.”

“I’ll let you get away with it today,” Steve says. “As long as you promise to ruin my couch when you do it. Next time though, you cum when I say or I send you out into the yard to pick your own switch.”

Bucky dips his head and sinks his teeth into the gray fabric on the arm, groaning against it, darkening it with drool.

“Steve,” he pants. “Steve,” he repeats, a groan this time because Steve digs his fingertips into the flesh on his hips and thrusts so hard he swears his heart gives a stutter from the sheer force of it.

“How's the angle, Bucky?” Steve asks.

“It’s good.” Real good. Real fucking good. He curls and uncurls fingers of flesh and steel, wishing he could dig them into the couch or Steve’s back or anything but the space between their two overheated bodies. Mercifully, Steve slides his hand between them both, slotting his fingers with the metal. Bucky squeezes and ruts back against him until he’s nothing but a mess of groans and pants and _Steve, Steve, Steve_. Falling from his lips like the name of some ancient, forgotten deity.

He’s chasing it, chasing it, and it’s just out of reach and Steve’s other hand forces its way under his body and finds him, and Bucky cries out desperately and lets go, twitching his orgasm onto the cushions. White on gray.

“God, you’re perfect, Bucky,” Steve says. “Just hold on for one more second.”

Bucky sobs with it because it’s too much and too good and he can barely stand it, the one leg supporting him trembling violently and threatening to give.

“Please cum,” Bucky says, and then he can't stop saying it. “Please cum, please cum in me, please Stevie.” It all runs together, one long nonsensical plea that has Steve growling low in his throat and digging blunt nails into Bucky’s hips.

"Bucky." Low and filthy and imbued with some kind of dark reverence that Bucky will never forget as long as he fucking lives. 

And then it’s over. Steve slips out of him, trailing cum that Bucky feels drip out onto the couch. Steve gently slides the leather off his wrists and tugs Bucky backwards until he’s half-sitting, half-laying with his body resting against Steve’s chest. For a while, all they do is breathe, the inside air cooling their skin. Steve presses a kiss into the side of Bucky’s neck, smoothes sweaty hair off of his face with his palm.

“You know,” Steve says quietly, somehow making it sound like the world’s filthiest confession. “I wanted you too, Buck. The second I opened my door and saw you on my porch, I knew I had to have you.”

Bucky's mouth twitches. 

“Yeah, well, some wise old man once told me that sometimes in life we actually do get what we want.”

Steve laughs, then leans in close again, lips brushing Bucky's ear when he talks. 

“Next time, I’m whipping that tight ass raw for calling me old.”

Bucky throws him a grin and settles closer, covering Steve’s wrist with his hand and thumbing the blue vein beneath his skin.

“That a promise, grandpa?”

**Author's Note:**

> Come bug me on [the tumble](www.bisexualstarbucky.tumblr.com) if you're into that sorta thing. 
> 
> I'm also on Twitter now as [@BiStarBucky](http://www.twitter.com/bistarbucky).
> 
> Comments make this life worth living. xoxo


End file.
